Remember Me
by TheDarkCorner
Summary: In a world, so imperfect and damaged after the war, there is a lone woman who had lost so much. Things used to be normal, they used to be joyful and pleasing. One event changed that, and now she's left to mourn for a man she could have very well called dead.
1. Chapter I

I

Rain fell, like the tears staining her porcelain face. Time stopped as her breath hitched, and the world felt like it had stopped spinning. She fell down the cliff side, facing the ebony walls, all points sharp, and each one beckoning for her to come forth—to ram into the brocade with full force. But she was falling down, down where the devils laid, and the pit of fire blazed beneath the ocean floor.

If she had any sane thought, she would have closed her eyes, but when she flipped downwards, she could do no such absurdity. It was pulchritude, this falling; this seemingly perpetual occurrence which had enraptured her. The glistening waves, and glimmering rocks could have mesmerized any soul. The water's waves undulated with force as they crashed and refracted against the pointed rocks. Would she fall in the water or would she hit the rocks first?

As she further descended, she could see the angular face of her lover, her first, her last, her only lover. She swore that she was staring into his black, damning eyes which shone brighter than a starlit sky. She saw his sallow skin, his thin, stable lips and his hair—his dark, satin hair. But she could not feel the caresses that he had saved for her, the kisses that she cherished more than her years at Hogwarts and she could not feel his heart beating faster than a war drum as he enveloped her in his strong arms and delectable sent. She hit the waves, looking into his eyes, and swearing that she could hear her name being called by his velvety, sonorous voice, "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione."

Her lungs felt like they were being pierced by a newly sharpened, acid covered sword. The acerbity of the salty water was convoluting her last thoughts of him. She breathed the water in, knowing it would kill her faster. The ocean's depths seemed blacker than before as she drifted into oblivion.

She awoke, jolting forward, breathing in staggered exhalations and inhalations. When her chest rose the fifth time she began to sob. When she ran out of tears to cry, she stared at the white-washed walls, the walls she could no longer bear to see once more. She trembled with the ticking of the plastic clock fixed on the wall.

Taking the time to remind herself, she closed her eyes: _It was only a dream, just another one of those dreams that you wished you had never awoken from._ The room she was resting in smelled like acerbic bleach and saccharine bubblegum. Her bed was harder than parquet flooring, and the pillows needed desperate fluffing. Yet she chose to suffer, for she felt as if she deserved ever moment of this worldly hell. She rolled out of the bed, now only covered by her thin, lavender hospital gown. She faced the floor, her nose pressed up against it. She knew exactly how any feet had walked there before—seven pairs and she could name them all.

A crystalline vase hit the floor and shattered, glass piercing her skin and sangria colored carnations scattered across the grey tiled floor. There were small shards of glass implanted in her now bleeding face, but she took no action. Instead, she toyed with the shards, no matter how many times they cut her fingers she continued on playing with them, taking a kind of pleasure in the pain that had enveloped such a tiny portion of her body. She topped when the greatest iota had hit her: The carnations—the carnations that were placed in her room. They hadn't been there before.

Hermione knew all too well that there was only one person in this entire world who had known which flower to give her. For a moment she hoped that it had been him, that he had remembered to see her; that he had remembered her in general. She shook her head at the inconceivable thought. There was no chance in the world that it could have happened. She clutched a single flower to her swollen abdomen. With the flower pressed against it, she stroked her abdomen, smiling pitifully.

Then, a man a came and with his strong arms he picked her up. Once she was settled in the bed once more, he turned to walk away, but she grabbed onto his black, button down shirt before he went too far. "Stay," she choked out, "please, stay." He tensed up before he turned to face her. His eyes were blank, and his face was stoic. She noticed the distinct lack of care on his façade, and nearly began to weep again. "Severus, please." He nodded, giving up his last ounce of professionalism.

He closed the door with his magic, and then took off his shoes as she made space in the bed for him. "This is not normal," he intoned bitterly. "Workers are not supposed to do these types of indiscretions with patients." He lied into the bed next to her, knowing that the moment he touched her she would relax. His hand touched her hip, and she let out a deep sigh of bliss—how she had missed his touch.

He took a roll of tan gauze and wrapped her bleeding hand in it. He made a mental note to let the custodian know that there was a mess that needed to be cleaned in this room. Lastly, with his fingers, he prudently took out the tiny shards of glass from her face. He had learned long ago that by time he would show up in this room, she would have hurt herself in one way or another.

She inhaled his scent, as if it was the only thing she needed to live off of. Her face was nuzzled to his chest, and her arms were around his neck. "Who brought the flowers?" she murmured into him.

"Minerva told me to place them here, though I will never know why she asks me to keep seeing you. I'm not meant to work on this floor," he sighed.

She took his long-fingered, pale hand and placed it onto her stomach, hoping that he would feel something; hoping that he would feel the same thing she did. Instead, he noticed something abysmal. There was a platinum ring on her index finger. "Your husband wouldn't be too happy if he saw this."

Hermione gasped, and then held her breath. She could never tell him—it would make no difference if she did. Severus was her husband, her lover, her everything. She began to weep. Every time she saw him, she swore that he remembered less of her.

"Do you remember me?" She asked him, because it was the one question that kept spinning in her mind. It often times was the one and only thing she could utter.

"You've asked me that question one hundred seventeen times. The answer still remains. I never knew you outside of this hospital." She snapped, her heart shattered, and for what seemed like an eon she swore that both her baby and she were deceased. He held onto her tighter, because if he didn't, she knew she would never recover from this depression.

Her face was paler than the snow on a winter day, and her eyes were rimmed with a shade of crimson that was darker than blood. Her hair had been wilder than ever before, and lips were swollen from the hours she had spent crying in a day alone. "Who made you be like this?" he wondered verbally.

If she had brazen qualities within her, she would have said, "You", but it would never have made sense to him. He had lost his memories of her one dark morning. He had woken up next to her, looked at her, and nearly killed her—he called her an unknown woman, a harlot and unspeakable, vile names; names that she never knew he had in his vast vocabulary. She bolted out of the house, left everything she owned in there, but the wedding ring she had worn for years. She came back later to take her belongings, and found out she was pregnant a few weeks after that fateful and cruel night. Too soon, did her forget the night he had woken with no memory of her, and then she ended up in this hospital, for her friends had insisted she stay there until she gave birth to her child.

Once she had calmed down once more, he shifted before rising from the hospital bed. "Please, stay with me, Severus." She leaned into him, her lips close to his. She took in his lightly wrinkled face, his hooked nose, the lips which brought upon savored thoughts of kissing him and then all of him at once—his unconventional beauty, but most importantly his unrivaled and enchanting soul.

"I have no reason to remain here," he stated blandly. Sitting up, he put on his shoes and swiftly left the room without hesitation.

Once he was out of the room, she said in her broken voice, "Remember me, please." His head had been pressed against the door, and he had heard her say it. A part of him ached; the other was tangled in sheer curiosity. He needed to know why he was so coveted by her. It was forbidden, but it made him want to know even more. A small portion of him knew that she had once been a wonderful person, one that he could have possibly had a relationship of any kind with—if they had been in another dimension.

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A/N: And so another tale begins. . . or ends. I have not decided if I should continue this story. As a warning, if I do continue, it will take long for me to update this. I do hope that you have enjoyed this, so far. Review, Favorite, Follow, if you so wish to.

-E. S. Grey


	2. Chapter II

II

There was a story long ago, of a prince and a dark castle, awaiting for the love he so deserved. But it never came, for his heart had fallen out of his chest, and he soon descended with the organ and the arteries. It was too much to handle, a beating heart, but one that was so far away from him and so inadequate. And so he crashed to the floor, only moments before the beautiful, cinnamon-haired maiden had come to find such a man: A man who only wanted love. But what went untold, was that the prince had survived the fall and went on to find the love of another woman—a frizzy haired know-it-all, with honey colored eyes and flaxen hair.

These tales were ludicrous in every sense, yet such stories were harbored close to the heart, no matter how insignificant they were. They were the pivotal entity to many great things, the beginning and end to human curiosity and imagination.

Hermione Granger was the type of woman who would suck in information, feed upon it like a leech until her brain would expand to beyond its capacity. What went unknown by most was that she was also the type of woman who focused far too much on fairytales. It was an obsession that she had covetedly formed when she was but a small lass. That obsession had been suppressed upon her entrance to the wizarding world. When Voldemort had fallen, she had once again rekindled that yearning for fairytales as her heart and mind were in disarray. Hermione went on, devouring all the romantically based heroism she could. She lacked these tales in her own reality, but what she lacked more than anything else was romance. She had grown a hovel in her heart, and it needed to be filled. Slithering past her was the barely-alive Severus Snape. A tragic hero, a martyr, and a rather attractive man as well she had begun to look passed his brooding, unbearable qualities.

In looking passed them, she had discovered the innumerable entities she adored about him. The way he would fall asleep with a pair of glasses sliding off his face and a book in his hand, or that he would sneak a secret smile in whenever he was almost completely sure that no one was looking, but also (for she could never forget) the way he would stand out in the rain and wait an entire night if he had to for those he had grown to care for, were among the list of the eclectic tendencies of his that she had chosen to stop ignoring.

_Hermione and Severus were lying on a four-poster bed of mahogany. "Hold me," she whispered in the middle of the night-the first night they had stayed with each other. A fire was burning in the stone fireplace, the smell of ashes and wine thick in the air. He placed his head in the crook of her neck and engulfed her in his arms. She was fitted perfectly beside his masculine body. "Love me," she released slowly. _

_ "I already do, I already love you so much Hermione." _

_ "Tell me every day."_

_ "I told you from the start that I am no Price Charming," he poignantly intoned. She only sighed and feigned sleep, hoping that this was just a rough patch between the two. "But I'll tell you that I love you as often as I can. I am not a man of words." He pulled her closer. "I am a man of action." She gasps when he begins to kiss her shoulder. She knew she couldn't ask much of him, but she loved him too much not to. When the burgundy wine spilled on the gray bed-sheets, neither of them broke away to clean up the mess. Instead, they made the mess bigger, and they thoroughly enjoyed doing such. _

Harry Potter, whose green eyes shown with glimmers of hope and piety, but also pity, had entered the room all but dismally. He sat on the foot of her hospital bed. "I head that he wasn't coming today," he told her as he stroked her leg, hoping that she would not break down. He repeated it once more when he received a look of complete disbelief. "You'll be fine without him. This isn't good for the baby." He puts his hand on her pregnant belly, and smiles. "Today will be a beautiful day without him, okay?"

What did "today" mean? It was a Saturday, and the sun was shining brightly in the lavender tinted sky. The previous air of happiness had been replaced by an unsettling repugnance beneath Hermione skin. That day was a Saturday and Severus was not there. Before Hermione was admitted to the hospital, Severus had begun to volunteer every Saturday at St. Mungo's. That day was a Saturday, and it might has well been a "holy day" or "dooms day", and she wouldn't have cared, because Severus was gone—where, she didn't know, and she wouldn't ask, because if she found out there would have only been a larger chance of tears slip out of her tired, barren eyes.

It was at times like these when she asked herself why she hadn't fallen in love with someone like Harry, someone with hopeful eyes and a memory of her. But the answer remained: He was simply, and would be nothing more than a friend, a dear friend who earned his place in her heart, but not a place in true, unadulterated love. Sitting on her bed in his navy blue collared shirt and tan slacks, Harry looked into Hermione's eyes, hoping that his hopes for her would be transmitted into her. Hermione knew this of course, that he had wished for her to get better for both her and the baby's sake, and this was just another reason was Harry was an irreplaceable friend.

"Thank you, Harry," she said was a crooked smile.

"I'll come back Monday with a few books, and we'll talk then. I have to get back to the Ministry and sort out the Auror department. Take care." After getting up, he pressed a kiss against Hermione's forehead. "Any book you want me to bring?"

"Anything by Tolstoy." He nodded, leaving the room dismally. Tolstoy was the author of the novels that Severus and Hermione had read together on cold winter nights cozily in their bed. Hermione could sometimes still hear his resonant, velvety voice reading certain passages.

That same voice sounded from the other sound of the room. Her heart almost literally sprang out of her chest once she heard it reverberate through the room and into her awaiting ears. "They told me to come see you first, Ms. Granger." She sighed, reminding herself once more that Minerva had rather rudely demanded that the hospital use her maiden name, and made sure not to tell them of the reason for the change.

Hermione sat up, her eyes already watering. Breaking down his last occlusive wall, Severus walked toward her, his eyes glazed over with pity. A part of him was in languishing, and he couldn't admit to himself why. He wiped her tears away with his thumbs first, but they kept on streaming. He bent over, trying to cease fire in the raging battle within him, and he kissed the tears away, one by one, until Hermione's unconcerting weeping had ended.

With a flick of his wrist the door closed loudly. "This is the most insane thing that I have ever done in my life," he breathed against the skin of her pale, freckled cheek. "And I don't know why I'm doing this, but I can't seem to stop myself from this utter catastrophe I'm about to make."

"Then don't," she exhaled wantonly.

After months of longing for him, waiting for him to come and whisk her away swiftly, Severus was finally with Hermione the way she wanted him to be. Her hands were wrapped around his neck, and dared to travel across his body. Severus was bent over the bed, his hands at her hips, and his face far too close to hers for sanity. "I love you," she found herself tell him. He wasted no time: His thin lips had claimed hers, and a symphony of feeling that he thought he had forgotten how to feel was playing within him. How many times they had paused their kissing to breathe and then continued to provoke each other into going further, they had lost count. When they separated, Hermione saw him smiling for the first time since she was admitted into this maddening establishment.

"Do you remember me?" The question rang in the stillness of the white room.  
"Why do you keep asking me that one question?"

"Because I'm your wife, but you don't remember me."

She didn't expect anything other than for him to claim that she was mentally unstable. She counted the seconds that passed—the ticking of a clock inside of her. _'Go ahead; tell me what I know you will. Tell me that I'm in the place where I belong. I'm waiting. I'm not sane, I know, but I've gone insane only because of you. You—the person I love.' _She watched him turn sharply and exit the room. It hurt her more than anything when he had said absolutely nothing. She fell onto her pillow, but she did not cry this time. She was going to be strong for the first time, even if she thought it to be impossible.

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A/N: So it didn't take me too long to update this. I don't know when I'll be updating next. This isn't my best writing, so in the future I may go back and edit this. Thanks for reading!

-E.S. Grey


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